


Dry Turkey

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Pining, explicit tag upgrade coming for part 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 20:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13689003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: Jean Kirschstein is a talented young printer with mad skills, a bad attitude and a serious crush. When jealousy joins the mix, things get messy. Lines are crossed. And Jean ends up being a very sorry boy. Well, not really. Not at all, actually.





	Dry Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> Writing quality smuts requires focus. I shared this sentiment with my pal RhetoricFemme a while back. I was trying to write some steamy smex and gnawing on an overdone piece of turkey that would have been better served plugging a leaky pipe. I complained that my dinner was...er...compromising the ambiance.
> 
> She shared with me that hey, she had a similar challenge writing while her dog was serenading her with his squeaky pig toy. 
> 
> As neither of us are quitters...we made a pact to tough it out...and turn the obstacles into prompts! So...we are pleased to share a pair of naughty Jeanmarco fics with y'all!
> 
> Here is mine. It is called, unsurprisingly, Dry Turkey. Let's just say it's a return to my kinky, plotless roots ;-). Enjoy.

"Yes!" Jean nodded his head.

He tilted the press sheet so that the light caught the pearlescent ink outlining the Faerie King's wings, setting them ablaze.

Armin Arlert, the printshop's colour engineer, pushed his glasses closer to the bridge his small nose. He leaned in, studying the colour traps. "Yeah," he nodded. "bang-on."

"I know," Jean grinned proudly. "'Course it's bang-on."

The image was of Jean's friend Ymir, an actor. She was playing Oberon the Faerie King in Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. The play was being produced by _Hera_ , Toronto's lesbian theatre company, which was housed in a defunct roller-skating rink.

It had been Jean's idea to print a set of limited-edition lithographs, to raise money for the theatre company.

"Did you double-hit the black?" Armin asked.

"Nope," Jean smiled. "One hit dark brown. One hit black. It warms up the tones."

Armin looked up at Jean, the head pressman, and nodded once, which was tantamount to lavish praise. "Smart. Looks brilliant."

At the bottom of the poster, the print shop's logo was scribed in silver: "Smith-Ackerman Fine Printers."

Company logo notwithstanding, Jean Kirschstein knew that it was his wizardry in combining four-colour-process offset with silkscreen iridescent overprint that that had resulted in such a beautiful piece.

He grinned. "Wait 'til Levi sees this. He'll pop a boner."

"I highly doubt that," said Armin.

"Ya, he will. Look at this. It's making me hard."

Smith-Ackerman Fine Printers occupied a large, square, two-story building, just west of the city's core. The shop boasted a four-colour and a two-colour Heidelberg press, as well as a full-scale screen-printing operation.

The offices, meeting rooms and prepress department were located on the second floor, accessed by means of steel staircases. These offices looked down onto the print shop floor, or "the pit" as it was called. Jean Kirschstein, as head pressman, was the pit boss.

The upper east end office was occupied by Prepress, and was often bathed in a peasoup-green light. This was Sasha's domain.

Directly across from this, looking down onto the pit from the west side, was Quality Control.

Jean stood at his press table, admiring the Ymir lithograph. He looked up through the glass window, to see the QC manager arrive at his second-floor office.

The manager greeted his colleagues with a broad grin, shrugged out of his North Face ski jacket and hung it on a peg.

Then, he strode to the window...

Jean waited

...looked down into the pit...

Jean pretended to look through his printer's loupe

...and began to roll up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt with strong, spatulate hands. He rolled, methodically, until both thick, freckled forearms were exposed. He lifted a coffee cup to his lips and drank.

Jean snorted. "The hours some people keep," he griped theatrically. "I've been here since seven."

"What?" Armin looked up in confusion. He followed Jean's gaze to the upper office window.

"Oh," he chuckled, "your honey-bunny."

Jean hissed loudly enough to draw the attention of the press helper. "Shut it!" He continued, "I might be his boss by tomorrow."

Armin said nothing, which was not lost on Jean. "What?" he challenged the silence. "I could be. And I probably will be! And a boss has to treat his staff respectfully."

"Okay," said Armin neutrally.

"Armin," Jean leaned on the printer's table. "I have been here since I was sixteen. I've run screen print, both litho presses, and bindery. I know all of our customers. Who else here, can do what I do?" Jean gestured expansively. "Who else? Show me someone."

Armin set the densitometer on top of the poster, and read the value.

"Nobody," Jean answered his own question. "There's Erwin, and Levi. And then, well, next down, is me."

"That's not how a plant manager is selected," Armin said quietly.

"Yeah, it is," said Jean with finality. "I'm sorry you don't think I can do it."

"Fuck, " Armin sighed. "It's not even coffee break. It's not even ten in the morning, and we're getting into this already? Jesus."

"Forget it," Jean began to sulk.

"Stop it. Literally. Stop. If you get this promotion, you know I will do anything to help you to succeed. I don't know why you keep needing me to cheerlead."

Armin straightened up. "Come find me when you're ready for your Tiffany blue," he said. He squeezed Jean's arm. "Look, you're a craftsman. Of course your experience will be valued, and passed down. Whether that happens tomorrow or next year, what does it matter?"

__________

By the time Jean wandered into the mixing lab, he'd had a think about what Armin had to say.

"I'm chill," he said to his friend. "You're right. Nobody will want to work for me if it's an atmosphere all the time."

Armin nodded, lips moving to keep silent count of the drops of deep blue dye, like mermaid's blood, that he added to the white satin ink base.

Absorbed in his task, he bent over the mixing well, balancing the blue and green on a razor's edge to create Tiffany teal.

"Ah," he nodded. "There you go," he poured the mixed ink into it's canister. "There. _That's_ what makes me hard. A beautiful colour like this. Damn."

He picked up the phone. "Marco," he called up to Quality Control, "Can I get a sign-off please?"

He hung up. A few moments later, Marco Bodt appeared in the doorway, shirt sleeves still rolled up, and tie loosened.

"I need a signoff on the Tiffany blue," Armin said.

Marco bent over the canister.

"Watch your tie," Jean smirked.

Marco ignored him. He smeared the teal ink onto a stock sample, comparing it to the client-approved colour swatch.

"Smack on," he said to Armin, initialling the sample.

 _Smack._ Jean snorted.

Marco raised his head, training his warm brown eyes on Jean.

"Jean. Behave yourself," he said levelly, leaving the mixing lab.

Jean flushed, watching as Marco took the steel steps two at a time, back up to his office.

_And if I don't?_

__________

In a stroke of pure irony, Jean slept in the following morning. He'd wanted to get to work by six-thirty; when he raised his head, it was seven-forty five. Raging and flailing, he got himself out of his basement apartment and onto the bus.

As he sat on the bus, thinking about the way Marco's crisp shirts pulled against his shoulders, he felt a warmth suffuse his lap. He smiled, then let out a squawk of horror when he realized his thermos was leaking Cowboy Burly Barley soup all over his jeans. His phone began to buzz; Levi wondering where he was. He groaned. This was not how his first day as plant manager was supposed to begin.

He burst through the employee entrance forty minutes later, swiping at his crotch with a press rag and shoving his boots, jacket and knapsack into his locker. He struggled into his pressman's navy uniform, stabbing his shirttails into his pants and rushed out into the pit.

He stopped. Smiled. There, standing around the four-colour press - his press - were his co-workers, Levi, and Erwin. He'd known Levi for ten years, since he'd begun working at Smith-Ackerman during high-school summers. When he'd enrolled in graphic design and print at Seneca College, Levi had offered him a co-op placement and, upon graduation, a full-time position.

Ten years. And finally, his dedication was paying off.

"Jean," Erwin Smith, the company president, spotted him joining the crowd, "Good afternoon. Nice of you to join us."

His friends ribbed him as he held up an apologetic hand. "Sorry boss," he smiled. This was, after all, the man he'd be golfing with, once summer came.

"You've missed our announcement," Erwin continued. "We're pleased to share the news that Marco Bodt has been promoted the role of Plant Manager, effective today."

Jean blinked. His mouth fell open, expelling a silent, "Oh..."

Marco stood by the press, accepting a congratulatory hug from Sasha. He shook hands with Armin, and with Connie Springer, his press helper. _Traitors!_

Jean took a breath, collecting himself. He pushed his way forward, and extended his hand to Marco. "Congrats," he muttered.

Marco turned, looked at Jean, and took his hand. He squeezed it, keen brown eyes meeting Jean's. "Thanks," he said, with a small smile.

Heat pricked Jean's cheeks. Marco's aftershave was citrusy; the collar of his shirt pulled a little sideways. He had a tattoo on his collarbone, a small bird.

Jean detached himself, and the crowd dispersed. He stalked around to the back of the Heidelberg, barking at Connie to start wash-up and get ready to print the Tiffany job.

He glanced up at the second floor office windows. Marco had moved one office to the right. He was on the phone, pacing, one hand on his hip, head lowered. His dress slacks hugged the curve of his muscular backside.

"Jean!"

Jean turned; Armin stood watching him.

"Really? The pity face?" Jean glowered. "Please. Not the pity face..."

"I'm not," Armin said quietly. "I get that this sucks."

Jean glanced at the whiteboard by the Heidelberg. After the Tiffany packaging, he was printing purple Slurpee signs.

"Got my ink?" he asked mechanically.

"Connie has it," Armin replied.

Jean stepped around the press, finding Connie. "Let's see?"

Connie opened the canister. "Nice," Jean dabbed his fingers into the mixture, checking viscosity.

He glanced up. Levi had entered Marco's new office and...was smiling at Marco. _Smiling._

This betrayal was the final straw.

"Hey!" Jean growled although neither man could hear him through the glass, "Stuff your promotion!" He grabbed his crotch in a fuck-you gesture.

Armin squeeped, but not in time to prevent Jean spending the rest of the morning with a purple hand print on his crotch.

__________

He'd completed an order of 10,000 purple Slurpee signs when Levi joined him at the press table.

"I tried to call you this morning," Levi said. "And I waited to speak with you at six-thirty, but you were late..."

"Sorry," Jean didn't look up.

"I wanted you to understand the reasons for the selection we made. Maybe we can speak later?"

"It's fine," Jean said dismissively, "It's cool. Whatever."

"I had wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Yeah."

"Marco would like to meet with the production team over lunch. Boardroom." Levi informed him, and walked away.

The uniform service arrived shortly before lunch. Jean contemplated attending the meeting with a purple hand print on his dick, but thought the better of it. He changed into a fresh

pair of blues and sauntered up to the boardroom, joining eight other colleagues. He flopped into a chair beside Armin.

"Six months," he muttered under his breath. "Guy's been here six fuckin' months..."

"Love sure is fickle," Armin mused wryly.

Jean said nothing, flicking his pen in a spiral over his thumb, forward and backward.

"Marco isn't an idiot," offered Armin. "He's a smart guy. And he's good with people."

Marco came in then, carrying a sizeable pile of file folders, a laptop and a sample case. He spewed all of these onto the table, with a broad grin.

"Apparently I've got a ton of reading to do." he sat down, crossing his arms on the table. There was a freckle constellation close to Jean that looked like Sagittarius. "I'm excited!" His brown eyes were bright.

Levi entered, grumbling something into his phone headset. He was frowning.

"Jean," he placed a hand onto Jean's shoulder. "Would you be good enough to go get the sandwiches?"

Jean stuck his tongue sharply into the side of his cheek. That stung.

Jean pulled out his pad, leaning back in his chair and glaring.

"Grilled veggie panini, please," Armin looked at him levelly.

"Levi?"

"Nothing," Levi flapped a hand. And then: "Tea. Flax toast."

"That isn't lunch," Erwin Smith chided his husband. "Jean, please see if your mom has lentil soup today. One for Levi, one for me."

Jean made a note. He looked up. Swallowed. "Marco?"

"Oh! Okay. Well, what about roast turkey?"

"What about it?" Jean drawled.

Marco continued, "Roast turkey, only…can you ask for extra mayo? On both slices of bread? Brown bread. And a bit of honey mustard. On both top and bottom?"

Jean rolled his eyes, earning him a few titters. "Sure thing."

He took the rest of the orders, shoved himself out of the boardroom chair and ambled around the corner to his family's Deli.

__________

He banged into the little Delicatessen, face like a thundercloud.

His mom, Sabine, did the worst thing possible; she turned toward him, an expression of pride threatening to burst her rounded face. She clasped her hands together, ready to hear all about her only son's promotion.

"Yes?" She greeted him eagerly. His aunt and cousin looked up as well.

"No," he shook his head.

"No? Why?" Sabine wailed.

"I dunno, Ma."

"No!!!" Her face fell like a souffle. "Aw, no! Marta, he didn't get it!"

"Ma, stop with the drama!" Jean groaned.

"No?" parroted Tia Marta.

"No, Tia. It's true. They picked another guy."

"Aw, why?"

Every patron in the cafe was now staring at Jean.

"Stop," he hissed at his relatives. "I just need some sandwiches Ma, okay?"

"They pick another guy?" his mother asked.

"They did. I need a veggie panini for Armin. Two lentil soup. Meatball sandwich on a bun."

"They should pick a woman," opined Marta, collecting the half-empty ketchup bottles for a spanking.

Jean sighed. "Ma, is there any turkey?"

"No."

"Yeah, there is," Jean leaned on the counter. "I see it right there."

"That's the end piece," his mother frowned. "No good, all dried out. I'm gonna take it home for the dog."

Jean smiled, slowly. "Actually Ma, it's perfect. Throw that between a couple pieces of rye. Dry rye."

"Rye?" his mother frowned at him. "Dry…rye?"

"Oh, yeah," Jean made earnest, wide eyes at her. "Has to be just like that. No mayo, no mustard. This….uh….this guy has a _liver_ problem. Liver troubles. He can't eat anything…anything wet."

With a great deal of uncertainty, Sabine sliced the leathery end of the roast turkey and stuck it between two pieces of light rye. "He should go see a doctor," she declared.

"Thank you, Ma. I love you."

"How come they make you get the sandwiches?" Marta called after her nephew.

"Because, I'm his mother!" Sabine informed Marta loudly.

__________

Jean distributed the sandwiches, chucking plastic cutlery and packets of crackers at his colleagues.

He watched Levi pull the lentil soup close, patting Erwin on the arm by way of thanks.

Marco had his laptop hooked up to the projector. Onscreen was an introductory slide. "What is a plant manager?"

Jean snorted. He turned toward Marco, a quip at the ready. But Marco looked so…well, so _sincere_ …

Jean sighed, tucking into his veal sandwich.

"First off," Marco began. He took a bite of his turkey sandwich. Paused, cheeks full, like a chipmunk caught in the headlights. Then, he began to chew. And chew. And chew.

"What?" Sasha was sitting beside him. "You okay?"

Marco nodded, taking a long swallow of water.

Sasha poked at Marco's sandwich. "Hey, there's no mayo!" she said. "Here, Marco, I've got an extra packet…"

Marco looked across the table at Jean. Then, he smiled. "No thanks," he replied evenly. "I like it fine, just like this…" WIthout breaking his gaze. he took another big bite of his dry sandwich, and chewed for the next seven minutes.

Armin dropped his glasses onto his notebook, shoving his palms into his eye sockets. "Jesus Christ. How old are you," he hissed. "Ten?"

"Dude," Connie looked pained, "there's an extra soup?"

Marco shook his head, grinning. "All good. All so good," he said. Jean looked up. "I _like_ it dry…"

"So does Kirschstein!" Connie snorted.

"Hey!" Jean lobbed a butter packet at Connie, beaning him in the head.

Marco, finally, swallowed. "So," he began again, "What does a plant manager actually do? Well..."

 


End file.
